Thus he; and Thetis, weeping, thus replied: “Alas, my child, that e’er I gave thee birth! Would that beside thy ships thou could’st remain From grief exempt, and insult! since by fate Few years are thine, and not a lengthened term; At once to early death and sorrows doom’d Beyond the lot of man! in evil hour I gave thee birth! But to the snow-clad heights Of great Olympus, to the throne of Jove, Who wields the thunder, thy complaints I bear. Thou by thy ships, meanwhile, against the Greeks Thine anger nurse, and from the fight abstain. For Jove is to a solemn banquet gone Beyond the sea, on Æthiopia’s shore, Since yesternight; and with him all the Gods. On the twelfth day he purpos’d to return To high Olympus; thither then will I, And to his feet my supplication make; And he, I think, will not deny my suit.” This said, she disappear’d; and left him there Musing in anger on the lovely form Tom from his arms by violence away. Meantime, Ulysses, with his sacred freight, Arriv’d at Chrysa’s strand; and when his bark Had reach’d the shelter of the deep sea bay, Their sails they furl’d, and lower’d to the hold; Slack’d the retaining shrouds, and quickly struck And stow’d away the mast; then with their sweeps Pull’d for the beach, and cast their anchors out, And made her fast with cables to the shore. Then on the shingly breakwater themselves They landed, and the sacred hecatomb To great Apollo; and Chryseis last. Her to the altar straight Ulysses led, The wise in counsel; in her father’s hand He plac’d the maiden, and address’d him thus: “Chryses, from Agamemnon, King of men, To thee I come, thy daughter to restore; And to thy God, upon the Greeks’ behalf, To offer sacrifice, if haply so We may appease his wrath, who now incens’d With grievous suff’ring visits all our host.” Then to her sire he gave her; he with joy Receiv’d his child; the sacred hecatomb Around the well-built altar for the God In order due they plac’d; their hands then washed, And the salt cake prepar’d, before them all With hands uplifted Chryses pray’d aloud: “Hear me, God of the silver bow! whose care Chrysa surrounds, and Cilla’s lovely vale, Whose sov’reign sway o’er Tenedos extends! Once hast thou heard my pray’r, aveng’d my cause, And pour’d thy fury on the Grecian host. Hear yet again, and grant what now I ask; Withdraw thy chast’ning hand, and stay the plague.”